


sunlight on your skin

by teenagewaste



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Character Study, Introspection, M/M, Mania, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 06:03:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18404618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenagewaste/pseuds/teenagewaste
Summary: "think you’ll wrestle me out of you with prescriptions? i always come home. always. ravenous. loaded. you know better than anybody: i’m bigger than god" - the mania speaks: jeanann verlee





	sunlight on your skin

**Author's Note:**

> written as if the breakup in s5 never happened, and subsequently seasons 6-9.

They ask you if you’re okay. If you’ve been sleeping, eating, going to work.

You tell them that you don’t understand the question, because _of course_ you’re okay. The days have started to seem brighter and the sun is pouring directly into your soul, giving you purpose. Who has the time to sleep when the day is calling for you? Who has the time for work when there are endless tasks piling up in front of you and _fuck_ there’s so much for you to do, but yet not enough time in the day to do it all. 

You can’t sleep, or eat, or work; not when your whole life is lighting up like a supernova.

They don’t understand, but then again, you didn’t expect them to. Their lives are simple—they don’t fight against the time in a day, they do things as they come, there is no beating the clock. 

You never stop to wonder what changed, what made every day into a free-fall with no parachute, what thing set you off kilter again.

Because you never realize that it’s happened until it’s too late.

They haven’t talked about locking up the guns and sharp objects—well, _yet_ , you think bitterly, somewhere deep inside of you—they aren’t worried about you killing yourself, they’re scared because they think you’re acting strange, but you just keep telling them that you’re fine _,_ you’re _fine, you’re fine._ They don’t believe you. But, when do they ever?

They think that you’re a liar, they think that you’re deceitful and manipulative, and you find it insulting that they would ever think of you that way. These are the people that are supposed to _love_ you, these are the people that are supposed to _know_ you, but they think that you’re someone that would do that to them.

You can’t seem to shake the feeling that maybe they’re right.

 

* * *

 

He’s starting to get hesitant again, you can see it in his eyes when he looks at you for too long. Sometimes, you catch him just staring at you in the middle of the day, as if he’s watching a car crash in slow motion, but he’s powerless to stop it from exploding. You’re not even _doing_ anything, just sitting and watching some stupid movie with him—that neither of you had been paying attention to, because _you_ bugged him to make out with you, you can’t help but supply.

These thoughts won’t stop, like somewhere—too deep in your subconscious to have an active effect on your brain, your actions—you just _know_ that they’re right. It doesn’t bother you most of the time, but sometimes, it shocks you to the bone, it’s chilling and painful, and you feel like you’re entirely out of control. It wasn’t always like this, at first you didn’t feel like this, but when you catch him looking at you like that, it reminds you that he would never lie to you. That he _knows_ you.

But you don’t really know you, so how the hell does he?

When you mention the looks, he gets defensive, no matter how much he wants to deny that he does when you call him out on it. You know him, better than you know yourself, and you _know_ what he’s like when he gets defensive. It’s offensive that he would think otherwise. But he says that the looks are nothing, he denies them all together, really, and that just makes you angry. So, you yell, and he yells, and the sparks of adrenaline running through your veins make you feel alive, so god damned alive, that you kiss him with every drop of energy that you have. You kiss him until he forgets why he looks at you like you’re a stranger in his home, you kiss him until you can pretend that everything is normal.

That little voice in the deepest part of your mind just rings, and rings, and fucking _rings,_ but you just don’t listen. Because you feel too _good,_ and why does everyone want to stop you from feeling _good?_

* * *

 

Sometimes, you can hear them whispering in the kitchen at night, when they think that you aren’t around to hear them. They speak in hushed voices and say things that would normally make you feel no better than your mother, but right now, they just fill you with bitterness and fire, make you want to lash out and _burn_. You’re untouchable right now, nothing can hurt you, but the anger comes tenfold—that’s the price you pay for invincibility. You can barely bite back the things you say to them, wanting them to hurt the way they wanted to hurt you—but that voice in the back of your head just keeps telling you that they weren’t trying to hurt you, they were trying to save you.

You don’t need to be saved.

 

* * *

 

When you look in the mirror, you feel like you’re staring at a copy of yourself, someone who looks exactly like you, but isn’t. You ignore the brief moment of crushing reality to remember that right now, you’re a superhero. Of course, you look like a replacement, all superheroes have to wear masks. This theory is only backed up when you realize that everyone around you is looking at you like they don’t recognize you.

You guess that your mask is better than you thought.

You notice that everyone is walking on eggshells around you, that they’re all very careful about what they say to you and how they say it, like you’re going to snap at any minute. It keeps you on edge, it makes you antsy, because for fucks sake, why won’t everyone just say what’s on their minds? Why won’t anyone just tell you what they’re thinking? You can handle it, you’re a grown up, but they still treat you like a child.

The usual sarcastic, snarky comments that you get from the people around you are absent, and it’s driving you absolutely _insane._ You just want everyone to act normal, you just want everyone to realize that you’re fine, that you’re just not tired recently, and you needed a break from work, and time for yourself. You just want everyone to understand that you’re just trying to get rid of the suffocating feeling that surrounds you, follows you wherever you go, you’re not being destructive—you struggle to find the proper definition of the word in your mind.

You’re trying to escape the mundane routines of your life, you want to find excitement, adventure, but you can’t leave him. Not again.

They don’t understand that you’re trying to outrun the itch under your skin, that the further your feet take you, the better you can breathe. You’re running to get rid of all of the pent-up adrenaline that courses through your body constantly. You need to get away, but you don’t want to leave for good, you want to stay, for him, for your family. It’s getting harder every day to keep your feet on solid ground—you want to float, to expand, to be everywhere all at once. You want to do _everything_ because you want to live your life to the absolute fullest, you want to experience all that there is to offer. 

No one else understands that—except for your mother, but she’s been gone for a long time, and sometimes you just want to outrun any thoughts you have of the woman who abandoned you. You’re not supposed to love her, but a small, self-destructive part of you can’t help but feel for her. She is your mother, after all, and she _understands_ you. She knows you.

You think that a part of her always knew that you’d end up like her.

 

* * *

 

  

You love him so much that it drives you half insane, because only he could make you fight against every instinct your body has to flee. You think that there has to be something special about him, something so extraordinarily unique that it really makes you want to stay with him, no matter how antsy you start to feel.

Your life would be dull without him, you think that he is half of the reason you’re still breathing.

You tell him that much and he shakes his head, calls you a fag, and kisses the top of your head. You know him well enough to know that that’s his way of saying, " _thank you, my life would be dull without you, too.”_

When things are normal like this—the two of you sharing kisses and small insults—you’re almost able to forget that he doesn’t trust you right now. He doesn’t trust you and it hurts you so deeply that you can’t stand it, but you don’t know how to fix it.

 

* * *

 

 

You can’t remember the last time that you slept, and sometimes you think that your body is keeping you up to avoid the nightmares. Your thoughts race and race around in your head, no finish line, just a never-ending circle around in your head. You sit up at night in bed next to him, scribbling your thoughts on paper in a way that only makes sense to you. Whenever anyone else looks at your journals, they look at you like you’re a ghost, like you’re breaking their hearts, and you can’t understand why your thoughts are so devastating to them.

You’re chasing sunrises, running for miles until the sun emerges in the sky, lighting the world up and making you feel alive again. You love the warm weather—it gives you ideas and purpose and motivation. It gives you life and takes all limitations away; you feel like a sunflower, like you’re growing into something beautiful with every passing minute that you spend in the daylight. You never want the nightfall to come again.

You leave the bed that you share with him, leave him sleeping alone so you can feel alive and free for a few hours, and when you come back, he always looks at you as if you’re hiding something from him. 

Can’t he see that you’re not hiding? Can’t he see that you don’t want to hurt him, that you’re not hurting him— _yet, you fool. Yet._

 

* * *

 

No matter how intuitive you feel right now, you have never been more confused. The people around you think that you’re going to shatter, and you can’t understand _why._

 

* * *

 

 

When was the last time you ate a proper meal? When was the last time you weren’t high? You’re spiraling and you can tell, but you’re too proud to admit that you need the help. You didn’t want to hurt anyone—you didn’t want to hurt _him_ —but it seems that hurting the people that you care about is the only thing that you’re good at these days.

You’re only good at being a liability.

The people that you seek comfort in are men who think that you’re only good for a cheap fuck, but there’s lava running through your veins, and it won’t cool down until you get off, until you find solace in a warm body. That voice reminds you that you’re hurting him, but you shut it off, too concerned with calming the fire inside.

Guilt is something that you get, conceptually. But right now, you’re so focused on feeling okay, feeling normal, and guilt escapes you. You can’t feel anything but euphoria or anger, those are the only two emotions that your mind can grasp. 

At night, you go back to his bed, smelling like men who aren’t him, but he hugs you close all the same.

 

* * *

 

  

_“You’re sick.”_ He says, looking at you as if you just took all of the light out of his life. _“We need to get you help._ ”

You don’t want help, you don’t _need_ help. Maybe you’re crashing, maybe you’re burning out, but they don’t need to know that. They don’t need to know that you’re out of control. It’s terrifying to know that they can see through your mask—you feel weak. The superhero that once took your place is gone, and you’re left standing alone, a tired shell of who you want to be but that isn’t for them to know. You’re stronger than that, you can fix this on your own.

So, you run.

 

* * *

 

You’re gone for six days before they find you—before _he_ finds you—just like they always do. You’re ushered back home, doped up on sedatives and a feeling of complete and utter defeat. You didn’t want them to see you like this, it’s why you fled. You wanted to heal the cracks in your soul with adventure and experience, but you burned out instead. Your soul turned to a dying star, taking all of the energy and life out of you.

They take you back to his bed, lay you down with him. He whispers how much he loves you, he tells you that he won’t leave, that he’ll always help you through this. You don’t have the energy to tell him that you wish that he would give up on you—you wish that he would realize that this is too much to handle, that you’ll never stop hurting him.

He tells you that tomorrow, he’s going to take you to the clinic, that he’s going to get you new medication. He kisses your forehead, holds your hand, and tells you that you’ll talk more in the morning.

You don’t get out of bed the next day.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by my own feelings towards my disorder when the weather gets nice again.


End file.
